


the gravity in between us

by spektri



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Fluff, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23496868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spektri/pseuds/spektri
Summary: Bobby tries (and fails) to write Warren a letter telling how he feels about him.
Relationships: Bobby Drake/Warren Worthington III
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	the gravity in between us

Bobby Drake has never been the most astute of men. So, because it’s an absolute impossibility to say it out loud without it turning an insult generated by a 16-year-old, he decides he’s going to write a letter instead. He’s not a writer either, and he’s not expecting he’ll suddenly hit a poetic vein that makes all of his words and confessions turn into beautiful prose that strikes longing in any man’s heart, but surely having the time to think about the words before a) committing them onto paper and b) allowing anyone else to read them makes at least some kind of a difference.

So he tries:

_Dear Warren,_

and thinks, _well, that’s a pretty good start_ , and decides to reward himself with a small break that turns into a lengthy break that turns into _oh, it’s bedtime already; well, I’ll continue in the morning_ , and none of it is intentional procrastination at all because why would he do that with something he wants to, nay, _needs_ to, do as much as he does? No, it’s all just a matter of getting inconvenienced by other people and being incapable of saying “no”, and he will, _honestly_ , continue the first thing next morning — that’s a promise.

Then comes next morning, and maybe it’s not the first, or the second, or the third thing that he does, but after he’s finished his morning routines, done some grading on his little algebra students’ exams, and helped out to make enough breakfast for not only the whole student body of the school but also the whole neighborhood, he does sit down on his bed, with his pen in hand, and lays out yesterday’s sketch in front of him, smoothing the paper, and looking at the words.

_Dear Warren,_

And then what?

Maybe “Dear” isn’t that good of a start after all. It’s a bit detached. And Bobby has never called anyone _dear_ in his life, not unless he was joking, which, okay, maybe he’s done a lot of that, _but_ this time it needs to be absolutely clear he’s not.

It’s one of the reasons he can’t say it out loud: he fears that Warren would just laugh and brush it off like most things Bobby says. He couldn’t even blame Warren if he did that: he’s been cultivating the persona of someone who takes nothing seriously ever in any situation for _decades_.

He’s written letters before. This shouldn’t be that hard. But the letters he’s written before have been to his parents, and he’s expressly avoided telling the truth in them. Truth-adjacent things, sure, but never the whole thing. Never “pouring his heart out” truth. Never “the goal of this letter is to get you to ask me out on a date” letters (and thank God for that, because imagine writing your parents a letter like _that_ ).

_Dear Warren,_

_You’re probably wondering why I’m not just calling you. Or texting you. Or throwing a snowball at you and hollering your name. Or sliding up to the skies where you’re minding your own birdly business and bothering you until you get so annoyed you push me off the ice and then have to swoop in and save my ass that you endangered in the first place_.

His wrist hurts already, though not as much as his own pointlessness hurts him. The words he’s written he’s not going to back out on, if only because he’s feeling unreasonably proud that he’s writing in the first place.

_Well, I’m doing it so there’ll be a paper trail, obviously. Hard proof of what’s happening. I mean, unless you decide to burn it down, for which I would not fault you, and I promise I don’t have any extra copies because I promise I really do not want to see this letter ever again. In fact, I don’t want to see it_ now _, but I’m just powering through it because I decided this is something I’m going to do and sometimes you just gotta stand by what you’re starting._

_So, here’s the deal. You remember the chat we had about Baby Bobby having a crush on Baby Warren? And, uh, me not exactly denying that? And also me saying I only like you blue and that it’s nothing serious and also brushing it off like a champ?_

Good build-up. Definitely no unnecessary words anywhere at all, and absolutely the best possible way of telling someone you’re actually always kind of been in love with them, despite what you may or may not have been aware of at the moment.

But as bad as it is, he has to write it down somewhere. At some point the idea that _well, at least three telepaths probably know about this and that’s basically the same thing as talking it out_ just isn’t enough anymore. At some point, he has to make it a reality.

And will he actually send it? He doesn’t know. Writing the thing is the important part, not whatever follows. At least for the time being.

_So, it may not have been entirely true._

_And by entirely true I mean it wasn’t true, because as much as I’d like to think that the reason I see your face before falling asleep is that I’m trying to figure out the best schematic for a home-made dartboard, it’s just not a very sustainable self-delusion anymore. Because the thing is, every time I know I’m about to meet with you my heartbeat picks up just a little bit. And every time we part, I just want to ask you to stay a while longer._

_Basically, what I’m saying is_

And if Bobby’s heart wasn’t racing already, now it is. He bites at his lip and stares at the paper and wonders how the hell Jean and Scott ever did it, because they too were friends first and right now Bobby feels like he’s about to burn a building, not just write some silly words on a piece of paper.

What if he did send the letter and Warren did read it and it just ruined everything, and it would be the end of their years-long friendship?

He’d like to shrug it off and say _eh; we weren’t that good friends in the first place_ , but unfortunately that’s not a rationalization he can make. Jean, Scott, Hank and Warren — they’re the most important people in Bobby’s life, people who will always get him in ways nobody else will, no matter what. And risking that for something as pointless as a little crush?

What was he _thinking?_

He doesn’t finish the letter. He throws it on his desk and leaves his room and decides to forget all about it instead. Bobby may not generally subscribe to cowardice, but sometimes he has to prioritize, and he can’t prioritize anything over the friendships that mean the world to him.

-

A few days later Bobby’s entering his room after a trip to punch some bad guys, and is stopped in his tracks upon seeing a whole lot of wings. He doesn’t remember they’d decided to meet up, so his instinct is that something’s wrong. The fact that Warren looks graver than usual does not help either.

“Did the stock market crash? Need a place to crash?” he asks instead of asking anything important, because that’s just the Bobby Drake way.

Warren shakes his head, gives a little smile — which is immediately reassuring, because Bobby would like to believe that he wouldn’t smile if he were here to tell that someone had died — and doesn’t immediately answer. Bobby steps in, closes the door behind him.

“It’s very crowded with you here, you know. This room wasn’t made to accommodate your wingspan.”

“This room was made to accommodate adolescents, and barely succeeded in that,” Warren points out, and his lips are still quirked up from one corner in an infuriatingly handsome little smirk.

He thinks he wants to kiss it away — and then he remembers the letter, which he never discarded, because of course he didn’t: that would have been the smart, _sensible_ thing to do, and Bobby Drake does not do smart or sensible, not, anyway, if smart or sensible doesn’t have terrible taste in men or make the first move.

He tries to get to the desk, which Warren with his wings and solid body is blocking, and he is very smooth about it, so smooth, in fact, that when it becomes clear Bobby can’t get through without literally plowing _through_ Warren’s wings — which he isn’t going to do — Warren asks,

“Going somewhere?”

And Bobby says, “No, nowhere important, we’re all good here. Just thought I forgot something, somewhere.”

Which causes Warren to shift to stand right in front of Bobby, and draw out the piece of paper Bobby knows all too well.

“Invasion of privacy,” he says, feeling like he suddenly has forgotten how to breathe.

“For sure, but that’s always been our thing, hasn’t it?” Warren says. He’s staring right into Bobby’s eyes, and Bobby can’t help staring back, and only one fourth of it is because they’re so damn bright and beautiful.

“Okay, great, so. Anything you want to say about it then?”

Warren shrugs. “Well, it’s not finished, is it? How can I comment on a work in progress?”

“Um, well, you could not do that? I’d like if you didn’t, really. Forget all about it.”

Warren leans forward, and Bobby can’t help his gaze falling to his lips for just a second —

“Are you sure you’d like that? You don’t want to tell me how it ends?”

Bobby wants to say “Yeah, let’s just ignore the whole thing”, but what comes out of his mouth instead is: _“Eeehhhhhhh?”_

Then he feels his hand being picked up. Warren’s fingers are warm against Bobby’s skin, and when his hand is on Warren’s chest, it’s warm too, even through the fabric of his shirt. Bobby swallows, but doesn’t let go, because he’d be lying if he claimed this wasn’t one of the thousand touches he’d wanted to give Warren for some time now.

He looks at his hand on Warren’s chest for a moment longer and then looks back up at Warren, whose eyes are now closed.

Quietly, Warren asks, “Can you feel it?”

And just as quietly, Bobby asks, “Can I feel what?”

And Warren presses Bobby’s hand tighter against himself. “My heart’s beating faster too.”

Bobby swallows and he wants to die of embarrassment because yes, he now remembers what he’d written in the damned letter, and so instead of saying anything heartfelt he says, “It’d be easier to get your pulse off your neck.”

Warren doesn’t miss a beat when he says, “Then get it,” and pulls Bobby’s hand up again, places it against his throat.

Bobby thinks he might faint.

Instead of doing that he does feel Warren’s pulse, does feel how rapid it is. And he looks back up at Warren who’s looking at him again, and they look at each other, and Bobby realizes Warren’s _scared_. Concerned. Doubting himself.

“What it was gonna say,” Bobby says, and doesn’t miss the way Warren’s eyes train on him like a hawk’s, “the letter, I mean. It was gonna say something like,” and he swallows and, _oh boy. Oh boy, here we go,_ “I think I’m a little bit in love with you, maybe?”

Warren smiles; not a smirk, not a nervous half-smile, just a full-blown, happy, gorgeous smile that makes Bobby want to keep doing things that make him look like that as often as possible. “I was hoping that was it,” he says.

“You were?”

“Yeah. I think I’m maybe a little bit in love with you too.”

And now Bobby definitely forgets how to breathe for a while, standing there agape at this goddamn angel in his bedroom making his problems solve so much more easily than he thought they ever might. He closes his mouth and drags his hand up to cup Warren’s jaw instead of still holding onto his throat, and he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Which Warren answers by slotting their mouths together quickly and perfectly, a soft, brilliant, perfect kiss that Bobby can’t help smiling into, as Warren’s arms come around his torso. They kiss slowly, sweetly, until Warren pulls back and says, “Yeah, you can kiss me,” and then Bobby does.


End file.
